I’m not an expert, but I’d say it would take a pretty fucking big sea monster to sink the Singapore Express.
Nearly three football fields in length, the Singapore Express is an absolutely massive container ship. It has a dead weight of 67,145 tons, and that’s before you add the weight of fuel and the hundreds and hundreds of steel cargo containers that it lugs around the Pacific Rim.
I’m trying to convey how fucking huge the ship is so you can appreciate what a big deal it is that it went down like it did and, by inference, how powerful the Kraken must be.
From what I gather, the Singapore Express had left the Port of Evergreen City and is about twenty miles out in the Pacific heading south for Oakland when the Kraken attacks. Giant tentacles burst from the deep, coiling around the vessel. Containers topple from the deck like toys as the creature violently throttles the helpless ship. Huge suckers rend the hull and sea water gushes in. The captain sends out a last panicked mayday as the Singapore Express breaks apart and sinks, leaving a vast debris field of oil and bobbing steel containers. With a whirl of tentacles, the Kraken returns to the black depths. The whole thing takes twelve minutes.
So the Kraken is basically a huge mutant squid beast, hundreds of yards long, with six big thick main tentacles and an inner ring of smaller tentacles around its beaked mouth that snares and tears the beast’s prey. Nobody knows where it came from or why it does what it does – all we know is that it comes out of nowhere, fucks shit up, then splits.
The Kraken, you may recall, was last seen eating the Canadian hero Northguard on TV. Remember that? It followed a NOAA research vessel to Vancouver, BC and thrashed around in English Bay, destroying sailboats and tugs with its massive tentacles. Then Northguard flies in with his Lightlance – remember this? I have it on tape. I know that sounds ghoulish, but I do. I have all the major televised superhero battles on tape or disc.
Anyway, Northguard. He rockets in with his shining white armor and his lightsaber-looking weapon, flying right at the Kraken’s tender eye… then he gets batted out of the air by a big tentacle and drops into the water, stunned. And then, on live television, the Kraken surges forward and spreads open its huge jaws. A host of smaller tentacles shoot out and grab Northguard and then glump! The fucking thing eats him, right there on TV. It was shocking and – this is horrible – almost funny.
That was nine months ago. Nobody has seen the Kraken since then – until yesterday.
I have to hand it to them, the military responded really quickly to this incident -- they clearly have a game plan. Since yesterday the Coast Guard has placed a maritime travel restriction on a big swath of coastline and parked a cutter at the mouth of Willapa Bay to control boat traffic. Some Navy warships are en route from Everett and San Diego to hunt for the Kraken, and P-3 Orion anti-submarine planes from Whidbey NAS have been flying over the EC all morning.
The Navy clearly has a plan for dealing with sea monster attacks, which is really cool if you think about it. It’s probably a result of those Congressional hearings in 1996 (or 97?) after Volcanus the Living Volcano destroyed half of Grand Rapids, MI. The original lineup of the Minute Men destroyed Volcanus, but the battle burned up a huge chunk of the Great Lake State and cost team member The Patrioteer his life. Congress was growing increasingly uneasy about having to rely exclusively on parahumans for national defense against giant monster and UFO attacks, so they demanded that each branch of the military draft contingency plans for defense against LHCs (Large Hostile Creatures) and UFOs. The Navy, naturally, was in charge of dealing with threats from alien submarines and LHCMs (Large Hostile Creature, Maritime).
Anyway, I just think it’s cool to think of Navy flag officers sitting around in the Pentagon talking about what forces to deploy against giant radioactive crayfish.
I’m content to let the military worry about LHCMs. I didn’t get into the superhero business to get killed fighting giant monsters and shit.
March 15, 2005
March 13, 2005
Afterburned
Emma takes me back to her place - a chic brownstone walk-up in Raymond with a rviver view -and we have sex. Good sex.
I don't want to get into explicit detail here, but I will say that Lt. Emma Casperson looks really good naked, is very um, expressive about her needs, and has absolutely incredible stamina. Seriously, it's like she's in training for the Sex Olympics or something. I felt like Tommy Lee.
Emma runs me into the ground at about three-thirty and I pass out in her bed. When I wake up, she's not in bed, but I can hear her clanking around in the kitchen.
"Emma?"
She pops in the bedroom, smiling. Emma's wearing an ECPD sweatshirt, Lycra jogging shorts, and Reeboks. She hands me a glass of orange juice and gives me a quick kiss.
"Good morning," she says. "Sleep okay?"
"Yeah, great. You're up? What time is it?"
"Almost eight." She takes a fanny pack from her dresser and buckles it around her slim waist. "Listen, I gotta get going. You can sleep for a while if you want."
"Where you going?"
She bends over a gun safe in the corner of the bedroom and works the combo lock. I shift in bed a little so I can see her Lycra-sheathed butt. "I'm going for a run, then I'm off to the firing range." She transfers a wicked nickel-plated automatic from the safe into a foam-padded carrying case.
"You don't want to... you know, hang out?"
She turns and smiles, brushing a wave of auburn hair from her eyes. "I'd love to, but I gotta go. Listen, I had fun last night. You're a real tiger."
"Ditto."
"There's French Toast in the fridge that you can heat up if you want," she says. "Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Take your time, sleep, hang out. The door will lock behind you when you leave."
"Okay, but... you sure you don't want to hang out?"
She sits on the edge of the bed and runs her hand down my torso as she leans in for a kiss. Her hair cascades down around my head. She smells like lavender and coconut oil. "I'll have to take a rain check. Thanks, Connor."
Then, with a little wave, she takes her gun case and her perfect body and leaves.
"Call me," I say lamely.
What, am I in Bizarro World or something? I'm supposed to be the one leaving her in bed, wondering if I'll ever call her. This ain't right.
That's it: I'm going on patrol tonight and I'm going to beat somebody up.
I don't want to get into explicit detail here, but I will say that Lt. Emma Casperson looks really good naked, is very um, expressive about her needs, and has absolutely incredible stamina. Seriously, it's like she's in training for the Sex Olympics or something. I felt like Tommy Lee.
Emma runs me into the ground at about three-thirty and I pass out in her bed. When I wake up, she's not in bed, but I can hear her clanking around in the kitchen.
"Emma?"
She pops in the bedroom, smiling. Emma's wearing an ECPD sweatshirt, Lycra jogging shorts, and Reeboks. She hands me a glass of orange juice and gives me a quick kiss.
"Good morning," she says. "Sleep okay?"
"Yeah, great. You're up? What time is it?"
"Almost eight." She takes a fanny pack from her dresser and buckles it around her slim waist. "Listen, I gotta get going. You can sleep for a while if you want."
"Where you going?"
She bends over a gun safe in the corner of the bedroom and works the combo lock. I shift in bed a little so I can see her Lycra-sheathed butt. "I'm going for a run, then I'm off to the firing range." She transfers a wicked nickel-plated automatic from the safe into a foam-padded carrying case.
"You don't want to... you know, hang out?"
She turns and smiles, brushing a wave of auburn hair from her eyes. "I'd love to, but I gotta go. Listen, I had fun last night. You're a real tiger."
"Ditto."
"There's French Toast in the fridge that you can heat up if you want," she says. "Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Take your time, sleep, hang out. The door will lock behind you when you leave."
"Okay, but... you sure you don't want to hang out?"
She sits on the edge of the bed and runs her hand down my torso as she leans in for a kiss. Her hair cascades down around my head. She smells like lavender and coconut oil. "I'll have to take a rain check. Thanks, Connor."
Then, with a little wave, she takes her gun case and her perfect body and leaves.
"Call me," I say lamely.
What, am I in Bizarro World or something? I'm supposed to be the one leaving her in bed, wondering if I'll ever call her. This ain't right.
That's it: I'm going on patrol tonight and I'm going to beat somebody up.
March 12, 2005
Showdown at King Putt
I win.
I get my date with Wendy’s cousin, the hot Lt. Emma Casperson. It’s a double-date, really; Wendy and JC are tagging along. Our destination: King Putt.
King Putt is an expansive 18-hole miniature golf fantasy land full of giant monkeys, sphinxes, windmills, shit like that. I couldn’t detect any overriding theme – you would think with a name like King Putt they’d go with an Ancient Egyptian motif or a royal/medieval thing, but no.
Emma is wearing a green off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater with tailored jeans, black boots and a matching belt. Her auburn hair is down; one side is swept back behind her ear while the other side cascades down like a luminous auburn waterfall. Her red lips seemed poised between a snarl and a smile. Emma is hot. I don’t recall what JC and Wendy are wearing.
Young, acne-afflicted King Putt employees in yellow Izods set us all up with clubs, and we’re golfing, baby.
“You ready to get your ass kicked, Connor?” Emma says, grinning.
“Me?” I say. “My golf kung fu is tops. You cannot defeat me.”
“I hope you don’t mind getting beaten by a girl,” she says.
“We are talking about golf here, right?”
We carry on with the adolescent flirting as we golf, accompanied by much eye-rolling from JC and Wendy. Turns out Emma is even more competitive than I am – we’re both shooting one below par by the ninth hole – and our friendly date slowly devolves into a struggle for supremacy.
Emma’s putt gets blocked by a giant monkey tail on the 12th hole and she falls behind by one.
I whistle sadly. “That sucks, Emma. Do you want to quit now? Because you can; we’d understand.”
“Mackenzie, how would you like to ‘crank it up a notch?’” she says, idly swinging her putter in a way that makes it seem like a weapon. When she calls me ‘Mackenzie’ it makes me think of Margo suddenly. Margo always calls me that. It sounds different when she says it. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks that I beat you.”
“Beat me? How about twenty? You’re on a civil servant salary.”
“You a little gun-shy, Mackenzie?” she says.
“Nobody’s ever used my name and the word ‘gun-shy’ in the same sentence before. I’ll take your fifty dollars.”
Emma looks at me like I’m cake. “Bring it,” she says.
“Oh, I’m bringing it all right.”
JC pantomimes vomiting. Wendy throws her hands up. “You guys are killing us with the corny flirting thing!”
On the last six holes of the course our game is loaded with competition and sexual tension. I miss a putt in the dragon castle and Emma pulls even with me. She does this thing every time she putts that I think is very sexy: she wiggles her butt and hums a little tune, then – and you can actually see it – then she gets very still and focuses like a lens on the ball. You can almost feel her concentrating. Then she putts and snaps back into the real world, brushing her hair out of her eyes and grinning.
We’re dead even by the eighteenth hole, a par two where you have to shoot into the mouth of a giant alligator whose mouth slowly opens… then shuts… opens… then shuts. A curved ramp in the belly of the beast guides your ball down on to the green. Easy.
Emma goes first. Wendy and JC have grown weary of our battle and are playing the hole behind us.
“Man, I hope you don’t totally miss, Emma,” I say as she does her little putting shimmy and knocks the ball up towards the alligator’s relentlessly moving jaws.
The jaws open…
Then shut…
They open… and Emma’s ball rolls into the mouth, down the ramp, and on to the putting green, coming to a stop within a foot of the eighteenth hole.
She smiles smugly.
I set up for my shot. The trick, I think, is to watch the alligator jaws and shoot as they are coming down and about to close. I watch the alligator’s mouth.
The jaws open…
Then shut…
I shoot, but too hard. My ball bounces off the alligator’s teeth and rolls slowly, sullenly back to my feet.
I lose.
Emma easily sinks her ball into the eighteenth hole and looks up at me, beautiful, triumphant. “I think I saw a cash machine in the lobby.”
We finish up and I give Emma her money. I hate losing, but losing to her is kind of exciting. “The least you can do is buy me a drink with your winnings,” I say.
“Uh-uh. Loser buys. Guys?” she says invitingly to JC and Wendy, who both shake their heads.
“No, you kids go do your thing,” Wendy says.
We drive in Emma’s Audi to Lemieux’s, an ancient bar that smells of smoke and old leather, full of The Same Damn People every night. I swear, there are two old people at Lemieux’s, a guy and a gal, who I have never seen move from their barstools. They could be animatronic mannequins for all I know. Anyway, we find a booth, drink gin and tonics and banter.
“Thanks for not gloating when you won, by the way,” I say. “Big of you.”
“I’ve learned that the male ego can only sustain so much punishment,” she says.
“I’ll bet you learned that from experience.”
She smiles. “I think we both know a little something about that.”
There it is. I knew this would come up: years ago in college I made a cruel remark about Emma that she overheard. I was drunk, I was an asshole, what can I say? (see post A birth, a wedding, and a hot cop, 1/19/05) Apparently it was a big deal for her at the time, and Wendy says for years I was the focused target of all Emma’s metaphysical rage. Sometimes I imagine I can see anger in her green eyes when she looks at me and I wonder if she’s just sitting there, smiling, hating me. I’ve completely forgotten my ulterior motive for hooking up with her: to get more information about the ECPD Paracrime Unit.
Man, should I say something, or blow it off? How bad am I supposed to feel about something that happened a decade ago?
“Yeah,” I say lamely. “Umm…”
She’s looking at me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“Let’s go,” she says, finishing her drink with a big gulp. Emma rises and holds out her hand. I take it.
“Where to, boss?”
Emma smiles. “My place.”
She’s looking at me like I’m cake again.
I get my date with Wendy’s cousin, the hot Lt. Emma Casperson. It’s a double-date, really; Wendy and JC are tagging along. Our destination: King Putt.
King Putt is an expansive 18-hole miniature golf fantasy land full of giant monkeys, sphinxes, windmills, shit like that. I couldn’t detect any overriding theme – you would think with a name like King Putt they’d go with an Ancient Egyptian motif or a royal/medieval thing, but no.
Emma is wearing a green off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater with tailored jeans, black boots and a matching belt. Her auburn hair is down; one side is swept back behind her ear while the other side cascades down like a luminous auburn waterfall. Her red lips seemed poised between a snarl and a smile. Emma is hot. I don’t recall what JC and Wendy are wearing.
Young, acne-afflicted King Putt employees in yellow Izods set us all up with clubs, and we’re golfing, baby.
“You ready to get your ass kicked, Connor?” Emma says, grinning.
“Me?” I say. “My golf kung fu is tops. You cannot defeat me.”
“I hope you don’t mind getting beaten by a girl,” she says.
“We are talking about golf here, right?”
We carry on with the adolescent flirting as we golf, accompanied by much eye-rolling from JC and Wendy. Turns out Emma is even more competitive than I am – we’re both shooting one below par by the ninth hole – and our friendly date slowly devolves into a struggle for supremacy.
Emma’s putt gets blocked by a giant monkey tail on the 12th hole and she falls behind by one.
I whistle sadly. “That sucks, Emma. Do you want to quit now? Because you can; we’d understand.”
“Mackenzie, how would you like to ‘crank it up a notch?’” she says, idly swinging her putter in a way that makes it seem like a weapon. When she calls me ‘Mackenzie’ it makes me think of Margo suddenly. Margo always calls me that. It sounds different when she says it. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks that I beat you.”
“Beat me? How about twenty? You’re on a civil servant salary.”
“You a little gun-shy, Mackenzie?” she says.
“Nobody’s ever used my name and the word ‘gun-shy’ in the same sentence before. I’ll take your fifty dollars.”
Emma looks at me like I’m cake. “Bring it,” she says.
“Oh, I’m bringing it all right.”
JC pantomimes vomiting. Wendy throws her hands up. “You guys are killing us with the corny flirting thing!”
On the last six holes of the course our game is loaded with competition and sexual tension. I miss a putt in the dragon castle and Emma pulls even with me. She does this thing every time she putts that I think is very sexy: she wiggles her butt and hums a little tune, then – and you can actually see it – then she gets very still and focuses like a lens on the ball. You can almost feel her concentrating. Then she putts and snaps back into the real world, brushing her hair out of her eyes and grinning.
We’re dead even by the eighteenth hole, a par two where you have to shoot into the mouth of a giant alligator whose mouth slowly opens… then shuts… opens… then shuts. A curved ramp in the belly of the beast guides your ball down on to the green. Easy.
Emma goes first. Wendy and JC have grown weary of our battle and are playing the hole behind us.
“Man, I hope you don’t totally miss, Emma,” I say as she does her little putting shimmy and knocks the ball up towards the alligator’s relentlessly moving jaws.
The jaws open…
Then shut…
They open… and Emma’s ball rolls into the mouth, down the ramp, and on to the putting green, coming to a stop within a foot of the eighteenth hole.
She smiles smugly.
I set up for my shot. The trick, I think, is to watch the alligator jaws and shoot as they are coming down and about to close. I watch the alligator’s mouth.
The jaws open…
Then shut…
I shoot, but too hard. My ball bounces off the alligator’s teeth and rolls slowly, sullenly back to my feet.
I lose.
Emma easily sinks her ball into the eighteenth hole and looks up at me, beautiful, triumphant. “I think I saw a cash machine in the lobby.”
We finish up and I give Emma her money. I hate losing, but losing to her is kind of exciting. “The least you can do is buy me a drink with your winnings,” I say.
“Uh-uh. Loser buys. Guys?” she says invitingly to JC and Wendy, who both shake their heads.
“No, you kids go do your thing,” Wendy says.
We drive in Emma’s Audi to Lemieux’s, an ancient bar that smells of smoke and old leather, full of The Same Damn People every night. I swear, there are two old people at Lemieux’s, a guy and a gal, who I have never seen move from their barstools. They could be animatronic mannequins for all I know. Anyway, we find a booth, drink gin and tonics and banter.
“Thanks for not gloating when you won, by the way,” I say. “Big of you.”
“I’ve learned that the male ego can only sustain so much punishment,” she says.
“I’ll bet you learned that from experience.”
She smiles. “I think we both know a little something about that.”
There it is. I knew this would come up: years ago in college I made a cruel remark about Emma that she overheard. I was drunk, I was an asshole, what can I say? (see post A birth, a wedding, and a hot cop, 1/19/05) Apparently it was a big deal for her at the time, and Wendy says for years I was the focused target of all Emma’s metaphysical rage. Sometimes I imagine I can see anger in her green eyes when she looks at me and I wonder if she’s just sitting there, smiling, hating me. I’ve completely forgotten my ulterior motive for hooking up with her: to get more information about the ECPD Paracrime Unit.
Man, should I say something, or blow it off? How bad am I supposed to feel about something that happened a decade ago?
“Yeah,” I say lamely. “Umm…”
She’s looking at me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“Let’s go,” she says, finishing her drink with a big gulp. Emma rises and holds out her hand. I take it.
“Where to, boss?”
Emma smiles. “My place.”
She’s looking at me like I’m cake again.
March 11, 2005
Disturbing imagery
Warning! Warning! Disturbing imagery alert!*
I'll get back to my usual pattern of self-absorbed narcissistic posting shortly; this week I haven't been posting a lot due to a) Blogger melting down, and b) laziness.
*Don't worry, it's disturbing but work-safe at the same time.
I'll get back to my usual pattern of self-absorbed narcissistic posting shortly; this week I haven't been posting a lot due to a) Blogger melting down, and b) laziness.
*Don't worry, it's disturbing but work-safe at the same time.
March 08, 2005
Looking for Mr. Sidebar
Through the chaos magic of Blogger I have somehow managed to move my sidebar, which has links to previous posts, etc. If you're looking for the sidebar, scroll alll the way down to the bottom of the screen. There it is.
I think I'll have to call an exorcist or something to fix this...
I think I'll have to call an exorcist or something to fix this...
March 07, 2005
A conversation with Wendy
I have a great idea, one that may a) get me some inside dirt on the Paracrime Unit, and/or b) get me laid: a double-date with me, JC, Wendy, and Wendy's hot cousin, Lt. Emma Casperson of the Paracrime Unit. Am I brilliant? Yes, I am.
I call JC and Wendy's house. Wendy answers. Here's a transcript:
ME: Hey, Wendy. It's Connor.
WENDY: Hi Connor.
ME: So I'll cut to the chase. I've got this great idea: King Putt.
WENDY: The mini-golf place?
ME: Right.
WENDY: I didn't think King Putt was your speed. Don't you and JC usually go to Shetfield...?
ME: Yes, and as a serious golfer I wouldn't be caught dead going into King Putt unless I was taking a niece or something, or if I had... a date.
(silence)
ME: You still there?
WENDY: Yeah, I'm here. Where are you going with this?
ME: A double-date! I think you, me, JC, and Emma should all go out. It's supposed to be nice all week. We could do some mini-golf then go out for dinner or drinks or something.
WENDY: With Emma.
ME: Yeah.
WENDY: You want me to hook you up with Emma.
ME: Yeah.
WENDY: Look, Connor, I don't know how to say this. Actually, I do: Emma hates you.
ME: No, she doesn't.
WENDY: Yes, she does.
ME: We were totally flirting the other night, at your party!
WENDY: You were flirting. Besides, you were hitting on everything with breasts at our party. Like my mom...
ME: Uh, yeah. I sent her a little apology card.
WENDY: I should hope so. I mean, God, Connor - grabbing her ass...
ME: Who? Emma?
WENDY: My mom!
ME: I didn't grab her ass.
WENDY: You so totally grabbed her ass. You go, "Stairmaster's been treating you right, Judy!" and just grabbed her. I mean, my mother, Connor. Emma's aunt.
ME: Well, she does have a nice butt for a gal her age...
WENDY: I don't need to hear that.
ME: OK, Wendy, let's get back on task here: King Putt.
WENDY: Yeah, I don't think so, Connor.
ME: Why not? Can you just ask her at least, see if she's interested?
WENDY: You do realize that this is a woman who, for years, hated you because of that one night in college, right? I mean, she went to a therapist, Connor. [see post A birth, a wedding, and a hot cop, 1/19/05]
ME: Well, I'm a different person now. That's all water under the bridge and shit. Come on, Wendy! She's a police sniper, for God's sakes!
WENDY: Sharpshooter. She doesn't like it when you call her a sniper.
ME: Okay, sharpshooter. My point is - and I appreciate you defending your cousin, it's sweet - my point is, Emma's hard core. She's tough. I'm sure she's over something that happened over ten years ago. And she's an adult. Why don't you ask her if she'd be interested and get back to me? Is that too much to ask?
WENDY: I don't know. Probably.
ME: Do you want me to stay a pathetic bachelor my entire life? Come one, I'm trying to grow and evolve here.
WENDY: (sigh) Fine. I'll ask. But no moping or whining when she says no, okay?
ME: You're the best, Dubya!
WENDY: Yeah, yeah...
And there it is. She'll say yes.
Man, did Emma really hate me...?
I call JC and Wendy's house. Wendy answers. Here's a transcript:
ME: Hey, Wendy. It's Connor.
WENDY: Hi Connor.
ME: So I'll cut to the chase. I've got this great idea: King Putt.
WENDY: The mini-golf place?
ME: Right.
WENDY: I didn't think King Putt was your speed. Don't you and JC usually go to Shetfield...?
ME: Yes, and as a serious golfer I wouldn't be caught dead going into King Putt unless I was taking a niece or something, or if I had... a date.
(silence)
ME: You still there?
WENDY: Yeah, I'm here. Where are you going with this?
ME: A double-date! I think you, me, JC, and Emma should all go out. It's supposed to be nice all week. We could do some mini-golf then go out for dinner or drinks or something.
WENDY: With Emma.
ME: Yeah.
WENDY: You want me to hook you up with Emma.
ME: Yeah.
WENDY: Look, Connor, I don't know how to say this. Actually, I do: Emma hates you.
ME: No, she doesn't.
WENDY: Yes, she does.
ME: We were totally flirting the other night, at your party!
WENDY: You were flirting. Besides, you were hitting on everything with breasts at our party. Like my mom...
ME: Uh, yeah. I sent her a little apology card.
WENDY: I should hope so. I mean, God, Connor - grabbing her ass...
ME: Who? Emma?
WENDY: My mom!
ME: I didn't grab her ass.
WENDY: You so totally grabbed her ass. You go, "Stairmaster's been treating you right, Judy!" and just grabbed her. I mean, my mother, Connor. Emma's aunt.
ME: Well, she does have a nice butt for a gal her age...
WENDY: I don't need to hear that.
ME: OK, Wendy, let's get back on task here: King Putt.
WENDY: Yeah, I don't think so, Connor.
ME: Why not? Can you just ask her at least, see if she's interested?
WENDY: You do realize that this is a woman who, for years, hated you because of that one night in college, right? I mean, she went to a therapist, Connor. [see post A birth, a wedding, and a hot cop, 1/19/05]
ME: Well, I'm a different person now. That's all water under the bridge and shit. Come on, Wendy! She's a police sniper, for God's sakes!
WENDY: Sharpshooter. She doesn't like it when you call her a sniper.
ME: Okay, sharpshooter. My point is - and I appreciate you defending your cousin, it's sweet - my point is, Emma's hard core. She's tough. I'm sure she's over something that happened over ten years ago. And she's an adult. Why don't you ask her if she'd be interested and get back to me? Is that too much to ask?
WENDY: I don't know. Probably.
ME: Do you want me to stay a pathetic bachelor my entire life? Come one, I'm trying to grow and evolve here.
WENDY: (sigh) Fine. I'll ask. But no moping or whining when she says no, okay?
ME: You're the best, Dubya!
WENDY: Yeah, yeah...
And there it is. She'll say yes.
Man, did Emma really hate me...?
March 05, 2005
Media Report
I made the front page of The Inquisitor again: "Marauder helps police catch serial car thief." There's a grainy photograph of me standing in front of the wrecked Subaru with a shit-eating smile on my face, waving at the camera. I think one of the college girls who witnessed the incident took a picture of me with her cell phone.
Oooh, and there's an editorial coming in the Sunday Edition about the Paracrime Unit! I guess some rank-and-file ECPD cops are pissed that this sexy new unit gets all the funding and cherry-picks talent from SWAT and Homicide - and to what end? They spend thousands setting up dragnets to catch me on one side of town while at the same time I'm helping cops on the other side of town catch bad guys.
I can't wait to read that.
Oooh, and there's an editorial coming in the Sunday Edition about the Paracrime Unit! I guess some rank-and-file ECPD cops are pissed that this sexy new unit gets all the funding and cherry-picks talent from SWAT and Homicide - and to what end? They spend thousands setting up dragnets to catch me on one side of town while at the same time I'm helping cops on the other side of town catch bad guys.
I can't wait to read that.
March 04, 2005
Flipping off the wall like Lucy Ball
After work I eat some leftover Indian food, brush and floss, then suit up and go on patrol, ready to crush evil and protect my city.
Tonight’s soundtrack: 3rd Bass. I may be showing my age, but I loves me the 3rd Bass, particularly The Cactus Album, which I think is genius. That’s right, genius. MC Serch and Prime Minister Pete Nice always spent too much time dissing other white rappers, but they had an inimitable style, mixing Serch’s bombastic rhymes and Pete Nice’s hyper-articulate Mafia rap with clever 70’s pop samples.
Anyway, I rock the 3rd Bass as I leap and run through the big superhuman jungle gym that is Midtown. I’m content with the knowledge that I won’t get hassled by Paracrime tonight, because they’re all wasting their time staking out the rooftops of Chinatown.
How do I know this, you ask?
You may recall that during my encounter with the ECPD Paracrime Unit in the Masonic Temple I planted a needle-sized bug in the armor of one of the cops, as well as stealing his radio and headset. ( see post Paracrime in your face, 2/26/05) I had been frustrated by the lack of information I’ve gleaned from the bug, which spent most of its time shut in a locker at police headquarters – cops generally don’t suit up in body armor for briefings. Go figure. Each night I would go into the Secret Chamber to review the MP3 recordings from the KOMA probe, the bug I had planted in the body armor, and each night I would be disappointed about the lack of good audio. I did manage to gather that the owner of the bugged armor, Officer Lucas, got a couple days medical leave after I roughed him up a little. Apparently I broke his nose in two places. But Lucas eventually comes back to work and when I get home today I have a veritable gold mine of information.
I won’t burden you with a complete transcript, but first there’s audio of Officer Lucas and his comrades putting on their armor and gearing up for an “op.” Then it sounds like they proceed into a briefing room, where Capt. Sledge says a few words. There’s going to be a Police Action Shooting Competition on the 18th, and don’t forget they still need volunteers for the Disaster Preparedness Seminars at area senior centers. There haven’t been any volunteers yet from Paracrime, and it would reflect well upon the unit, et cetera, et cetera. From what I can gather, Sledge “volunteers” the two most junior members of the team. Laughter. Sledge urges the assembled team members to be careful and take care of each other out there – it’s very Hill Street Blues – then turns the briefing over to Lt. Casperson – Emma.
Some quick background: Emma is the cousin of Wendy, who recently married JC, my best friend from college. Emma looks like Rita Hayworth spliced with T2 Linda Hamilton. I knew she was a cop, but I just recently found out that she was on the Paracrime Unit. She’s a trained sniper, too, which makes her even sexier.
Anyway, Lt. Emma Casperson briefs the team and, indirectly, me about tonight’s plans. They know I have one of their radios, so they’re changing frequencies every 15 minutes tonight. She kindly tells me the frequency and sequence, which I write down, thank you very much. I learn that they are planning a series of dragnets in several key areas of the city where I have been sited. Emma keeps referring to a map of the city, which I imagine has little colored map tacks all over it. They spread out in different fire teams in rooftop “hides,” armed with exotic weaponry like Bore Thunder concussion rounds and WebShot nets, waiting for the Velvet Marauder to enter their perimeter. Tonight they’re trying out a new laser tripwire system that their stringing across the roofs of Chinatown in an effort to catch me.
Chumps.
So here I am, feeling smug and on top of things for the first time in recent memory, bouncing around Midtown about a mile away from the Paracrime dragnet. I bounce off a billboard and skid down the shingled roof of an old water tower, flip, then land like a cat in Pose #4, Wary Mongoose.
I turn off MC Serch and look out over Evergreen City at night, suffused in the amber glow of the streetlights and the cold sparkle of the skyscrapers. I breathe in the salty low-tide smell and listen to the sounds of my city, the traffic and the music and the sirens and the background white noise of the freeway. My city. Jesus, I’ll stop before I break into “We Built This City on Rock ‘n Roll.”
I hear sirens coming from the Queen’s Row area.
Switching over to the scanner, I bound and leap across rooftops, moving west towards the sirens. According to the scanner the ECPD are in pursuit of a stolen green Subaru sedan that’s heading north towards Waterfront Park. If I cut across the Diamond parking garage and leap across Oyster, I may be able to catch them…
I spot them, the Subaru and two police cars, racing the wrong way up Oyster Ave. Unless they turn, they’ll pass under me in about five seconds.
I jump four stories down to Oyster, landing lightly in a crouch on the sidewalk. I scare the shit out of a group of college-age girls, who scream as I drop out of the sky in front of them. I hold up my hand in what I hope is a reassuring gesture as they clutch each other and cower, but I’m not really concerned about them. My attention is focused on the green Subaru racing my way, horn blaring, cops in tow.
The Subaru swerves to avoid oncoming traffic (Oyster is a one-way street) and sideswipes a parked car with a tremendous shower of sparks. The stolen car jerks back into the center of Oyster – it’s almost here…
Ignoring the screaming girls I break from my crouch and sprint out into the street, staying low. The Subaru and I meet in the center of the street. Just before impact I put my shoulder down and slam into the front quarter of the speeding car like a torpedo.
Bam!
The front end of the car lifts up and the force of my blow sends it careening across Oyster. Briefly I catch a glimpse of the terrified driver - then the airbag erupts from the steering wheel and into his face. The Subaru slams sideways into a tree, does a half-spin and comes to a stop backwards on Oyster, smoking and steaming. Well, he’s facing the right way now.
I pick myself up from the middle of the street, dusting my suit off. The two cop cars skid to a halt about twenty yards away.
The girls on the sidewalk are cheering and yelling now, fully psyched. “Ohmygod! Velvet Marauder! Velvet Marauder!”
I give a jaunty wave to the girls, then, with a little salute to the cops I jump up and away.
Paracrime is going to be so pissed.
Tonight’s soundtrack: 3rd Bass. I may be showing my age, but I loves me the 3rd Bass, particularly The Cactus Album, which I think is genius. That’s right, genius. MC Serch and Prime Minister Pete Nice always spent too much time dissing other white rappers, but they had an inimitable style, mixing Serch’s bombastic rhymes and Pete Nice’s hyper-articulate Mafia rap with clever 70’s pop samples.
Anyway, I rock the 3rd Bass as I leap and run through the big superhuman jungle gym that is Midtown. I’m content with the knowledge that I won’t get hassled by Paracrime tonight, because they’re all wasting their time staking out the rooftops of Chinatown.
How do I know this, you ask?
You may recall that during my encounter with the ECPD Paracrime Unit in the Masonic Temple I planted a needle-sized bug in the armor of one of the cops, as well as stealing his radio and headset. ( see post Paracrime in your face, 2/26/05) I had been frustrated by the lack of information I’ve gleaned from the bug, which spent most of its time shut in a locker at police headquarters – cops generally don’t suit up in body armor for briefings. Go figure. Each night I would go into the Secret Chamber to review the MP3 recordings from the KOMA probe, the bug I had planted in the body armor, and each night I would be disappointed about the lack of good audio. I did manage to gather that the owner of the bugged armor, Officer Lucas, got a couple days medical leave after I roughed him up a little. Apparently I broke his nose in two places. But Lucas eventually comes back to work and when I get home today I have a veritable gold mine of information.
I won’t burden you with a complete transcript, but first there’s audio of Officer Lucas and his comrades putting on their armor and gearing up for an “op.” Then it sounds like they proceed into a briefing room, where Capt. Sledge says a few words. There’s going to be a Police Action Shooting Competition on the 18th, and don’t forget they still need volunteers for the Disaster Preparedness Seminars at area senior centers. There haven’t been any volunteers yet from Paracrime, and it would reflect well upon the unit, et cetera, et cetera. From what I can gather, Sledge “volunteers” the two most junior members of the team. Laughter. Sledge urges the assembled team members to be careful and take care of each other out there – it’s very Hill Street Blues – then turns the briefing over to Lt. Casperson – Emma.
Some quick background: Emma is the cousin of Wendy, who recently married JC, my best friend from college. Emma looks like Rita Hayworth spliced with T2 Linda Hamilton. I knew she was a cop, but I just recently found out that she was on the Paracrime Unit. She’s a trained sniper, too, which makes her even sexier.
Anyway, Lt. Emma Casperson briefs the team and, indirectly, me about tonight’s plans. They know I have one of their radios, so they’re changing frequencies every 15 minutes tonight. She kindly tells me the frequency and sequence, which I write down, thank you very much. I learn that they are planning a series of dragnets in several key areas of the city where I have been sited. Emma keeps referring to a map of the city, which I imagine has little colored map tacks all over it. They spread out in different fire teams in rooftop “hides,” armed with exotic weaponry like Bore Thunder concussion rounds and WebShot nets, waiting for the Velvet Marauder to enter their perimeter. Tonight they’re trying out a new laser tripwire system that their stringing across the roofs of Chinatown in an effort to catch me.
Chumps.
So here I am, feeling smug and on top of things for the first time in recent memory, bouncing around Midtown about a mile away from the Paracrime dragnet. I bounce off a billboard and skid down the shingled roof of an old water tower, flip, then land like a cat in Pose #4, Wary Mongoose.
I turn off MC Serch and look out over Evergreen City at night, suffused in the amber glow of the streetlights and the cold sparkle of the skyscrapers. I breathe in the salty low-tide smell and listen to the sounds of my city, the traffic and the music and the sirens and the background white noise of the freeway. My city. Jesus, I’ll stop before I break into “We Built This City on Rock ‘n Roll.”
I hear sirens coming from the Queen’s Row area.
Switching over to the scanner, I bound and leap across rooftops, moving west towards the sirens. According to the scanner the ECPD are in pursuit of a stolen green Subaru sedan that’s heading north towards Waterfront Park. If I cut across the Diamond parking garage and leap across Oyster, I may be able to catch them…
I spot them, the Subaru and two police cars, racing the wrong way up Oyster Ave. Unless they turn, they’ll pass under me in about five seconds.
I jump four stories down to Oyster, landing lightly in a crouch on the sidewalk. I scare the shit out of a group of college-age girls, who scream as I drop out of the sky in front of them. I hold up my hand in what I hope is a reassuring gesture as they clutch each other and cower, but I’m not really concerned about them. My attention is focused on the green Subaru racing my way, horn blaring, cops in tow.
The Subaru swerves to avoid oncoming traffic (Oyster is a one-way street) and sideswipes a parked car with a tremendous shower of sparks. The stolen car jerks back into the center of Oyster – it’s almost here…
Ignoring the screaming girls I break from my crouch and sprint out into the street, staying low. The Subaru and I meet in the center of the street. Just before impact I put my shoulder down and slam into the front quarter of the speeding car like a torpedo.
Bam!
The front end of the car lifts up and the force of my blow sends it careening across Oyster. Briefly I catch a glimpse of the terrified driver - then the airbag erupts from the steering wheel and into his face. The Subaru slams sideways into a tree, does a half-spin and comes to a stop backwards on Oyster, smoking and steaming. Well, he’s facing the right way now.
I pick myself up from the middle of the street, dusting my suit off. The two cop cars skid to a halt about twenty yards away.
The girls on the sidewalk are cheering and yelling now, fully psyched. “Ohmygod! Velvet Marauder! Velvet Marauder!”
I give a jaunty wave to the girls, then, with a little salute to the cops I jump up and away.
Paracrime is going to be so pissed.
March 02, 2005
I want a hovercraft
This is pretty much the coolest, geekiest thing ever: the JL421 Badonkadonk Land Cruiser/Tank. Only twenty grand, too.
I want a tank, a real tank. Wouldn't that be cool? A hovertank, like that guy in Minnesota, Panzer. Or maybe that would be overkill. How about a sleek, high-speed hovercraft, painted black with my logo on the side. It would have a stealth mode, and a whisper mode, and a high-speed mode... you gotta have modes and shit like that.
I wonder how much that would set me back, a hovercraft? I should look into that.
I want a tank, a real tank. Wouldn't that be cool? A hovertank, like that guy in Minnesota, Panzer. Or maybe that would be overkill. How about a sleek, high-speed hovercraft, painted black with my logo on the side. It would have a stealth mode, and a whisper mode, and a high-speed mode... you gotta have modes and shit like that.
I wonder how much that would set me back, a hovercraft? I should look into that.
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